


tautology: repetition of the same sentence in different words

by nantes (titians)



Series: put on your red shoes and dance the blues [3]
Category: Actor RPF, Fashion Model RPF, One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 12:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titians/pseuds/nantes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It goes like this: breakfast, rehearsals, lunch, some more rehearsals, shower, dinner, call home, tell everyone you miss them and bed.  Rinse and repeat daily for three months.  Or don't. Do whatever you find easiest. (Are they humans or are they dancers?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	tautology: repetition of the same sentence in different words

**Author's Note:**

> only liv cares tbh. and me, but when am i _not_ stupidly invested in [crack RPF pairings](http://titians.tumblr.com/post/58622888135) in ridiculous AUs?

> “And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be. I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you; I can't do anything except be in love with you.” **_ROMEO & JULIET_, DIRE STRAITS**
> 
> **( 212 ) :** so somebody asked him if he was okay and he turned around, started running and screamed, "ballet is running through my veins," before doing a small pirouette. it's amazing how he managed not to fall.  
> 

 

 

_ [ page 116 ] _  
**THE BRITISH ARE COMING: Or, How Three of the Royal Ballet's Finest Shook Up the NYCB's _Romeo & Juliet_ | N. Gibbs**

AUGUST 22 2013: All Gemma Arterton wants is a burger. "It's this thing I have to do, every new restaurant I go to I have to try their burger. . ." she trails off. She speaks as much with her hands as her mouth, a fluid ballet dancer to the core. To her left, Zayn Malik chuckles before wondering how readers will accept this line. "You should do an online poll: 'On a scale of one to ten, how believable is it the prima ballerina ordered a burger?'" he jokes, while Arterton frowns at the insinuation. "I always judge places by their burgers," she insists. "Best one I've had was in Wales, this little hole-in-the-wall place Harry [Styles, one of eight newly named Principle Dancers for the Royal Ballet] found at about three in the morning."

She immediately catches her mistake; all questions about relationship are strictly off limits. Malik trills out a laugh as she blushes. Side by side, it is difficult to choose who to focus on at any moment. He says, "Moving on." (It's obvious from the angle of their arms the pair are holding hands under the table.)

[cont'd-]

 

 

Gemma packs the way she does everything else − methodically, carefully and gracefully.

While she's rummaging through the wardrobe looking for something, Harry finds himself staring at the way she wears her shoulders and how it makes the bones at the top of her spine stick out a little underneath her messy bun, a large tendril of hair coming loose by her ear. When she bends down to go through her shoes − for the fifth time − Harry leans in and steals a sweater from her suitcase without really realising he's doing it.

He balls it up around his hands, feeling the softness of it against his fingers, and before she turns around again, he throws it across the room near a hoodie of his.

Three months apart is a long time for a couple who have only really just started calling themselves a 'couple'. (Sure, Harry's stuff has slowly been finding its way into Gemma's house since April and in his own place his favourite mug is marked with a plum lipstick stain from her mouth, one he has tried over and over to wash out. But-) And call him stupid, call him sentimental, but he has always liked how that sweater looks, the loose sag of it around the collar and how it shows off her clavicles, but Harry wants to keep a part of her here with him.

If he could, he'd bundle her up around his hands and tell her to stay, that he needs her, that the season won't be the same without her. But being invited to dance with the New York City Ballet is a huge honour. 

And Harry can't take that from her.

He stops her folding a shirt, removing the garment from her hands and placing it in a ball on the bed.

Gemma makes a noise, but eases into the hug Harry pulls her into before she can get too far with it. Pressed cheek to cheek against him she asks, "You ok?" He manages a nod, deciding words are unimportant right now and choosing to focus instead on remembering how she breathes while pressed up this close to him.

"I'm gonna miss you, Styles," she says.

Harry feels her sigh.

He makes dinner for them both, pasta served with something from the freezer since he's wants to defrost it once Gemma's gone − one of many odd jobs he has lined up for himself to pass the time while Gemma is in New York and he's waiting for the new rehearsals to start at home − and afterwards, she shoos him off so she can do the dishes. "Go watch telly, I'll be there in a minute."

It takes her more than ten and Harry hears her swearing at one of the pots he used halfway through, her nail splitting as she scrubs at the burnt on crust of sauce. When she comes in, kneeing her way onto the couch and into his space, he expects her to mention it, to say something like 'I've asked you before to soak things, it makes them easier to wash' but instead, Gemma curls into his side and settles down quietly. They have seen this episode of _Cake Boss_ before, the one where Buddy finds out his youngest son is lactose intolerant, but Harry has had time to go through their other 120 channels and this is genuinely the best thing on. Again, Gemma doesn't say anything.

"You ok?" he asks, gently brushing her hair away from her neck. She closes her eyes as he strokes his thumb along her throat and onto the tattoo behind her ear, nodding lightly. "You sure?"

She replies, "Yeah."

On screen, Buddy is telling his wife that they have five different types of vanilla flavouring − "We own a _bakery_ ," in that New Jersey accent of his, and next to Harry, curled in compact against his side, Gemma looks up at him.

He feels his eyes on her and looks to her. "Are you ok?" she asks, throwing it back at him.

He's not sure how to answer it. As he looks at her, he thinks he sees in her face 'tell me the truth', 'I'm here now, talk to me' and 'if you tell me to stay I will'. But he can't. So, he gives her a sad smile and hopes it say 'I love you', 'I'm happy for you'. And most importantly 'I'd never ask you to do something like that'. He gives her, "Course."

The confirmation changes her face, a wider smile and a glint in her eyes because 'thanks, Styles' and 'that means a lot coming from you'. Harry feels her excitement bleeding from her and he wishes he could take some of it for himself. But three months is a long time and New York is an ocean away and he doesn't. Have the money to visit her, no matter how often she asks him to. (Sure, he can ask his mum, she'd definitely give it to him but Harry is 21 and he can't turn around to his mum just to follow a girl to New York. Even if that girl is Gemma, lying on the couch, squished in beside him.)

When they go to bed, Harry gets in first and watches Gemma as she gets herself ready.

He doesn't understand why she always ties her hair up, but he appreciates the angles it makes her wrists turn to and how her shirt rises up, exposing the curve of her waist underneath it as she scrapes back her hair with her fingers. She brushes her teeth, shedding her jeans somewhere in the interim of bathroom and bedroom, never bothering to replace them. And when she climbs under the covers next to him, she smells softly of mints and orange, from her facewash and her legs are bare against his.

Harry pulls her into a hug, her face settling in the space at his neck.

They can't sleep like this, but Harry holds her there for longer than usual, stroking his fingers over the notches of her spine. Gemma sighs against him, the sound content and warming through him.

"You're not going forever, are you?" he asks. Small and dumb, like a child − he hadn't really meant to let it slip out but now it is out there, he doesn't fight too hard to get it back. Gemma tries to move against him, nudging at his stomach to let her sit up but Harry keeps her close. She sighs again, different to the last time, and when she shakes her head, the end of her ponytail whips lightly at him.

She says, "No. Why would you think that?" All on one breath, pushed out from how tightly he holds her.

"Because-"

Because Ryan. Because Zac. Because of all the other ballet dancers who got invited elsewhere and never came back. Because of how good she is. Because ten years in one ballet company is a long time to stay. Because she's already going and Harry is a dumb kid who automatically assumes the worst and worries about things that haven't even happened yet, things that might not even happen.

She pulls back and looks down on him, propping herself up with an elbow.

Harry keeps his hand on her back.

"Do you really think I'd go?"

He shrugs at her, making her move with it from where she's pressed up against him. "Really, Styles? You can't get rid of me that easily."

It's a joke, one that makes Harry's lips curl as he acknowledges it but he stops before his lips can turn into a proper smile, Gemma leaning down and breathing against him for a moment before kissing him fully, her nails snagging on the chains around his neck. "I'm not leaving forever," she whispers as she pulls back and Harry bites his lip, enamel scrapping flesh, and nods because he has to believe her.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Louis wants to do something stupid.

He wants to tug Nick's arm and pull him to a tattoo parlour and get something dumb and sentimental (like 'last guy on my mind' across his knuckles with a heart to fill the space on his pinkie, the idea he's been toying with for the last few weeks but knows relationships and tattoos don't mix all that well). Wants to drink until one of them throws up on the street and gets gently ushered into a taxi by the other one just to come home and sleep sleep _sleep_ through the weekend. He wants to rent a bouncy castle and fuck on it. Wants to bungee jump and kiss Nick until Nick says, "You know what? I'm not going to go to New York."

But Nick wants to sleep, tired from packing and worrying − "Do I have my passport? Where are the tickets? What if the plane falls out of the sky? Are you sure you can't come for a couple days, Lou? Have you seen my electric blue suede winkle-pickers?" − and Louis just-

Needs to work out when Nick became that person. The person Louis wanted to do dumb stuff with; the person Louis really doesn't want to watch get on a plane and fly across an ocean for three months, leaving him behind in England.

He goes easily when Nick pulls him down, settling into Nick's side and pillowing his cheek on his chest.

"You could come visit," Nick says, half a statement, half a question.

Louis sighs. They've had this conversation (argument, row, heated discussion) before and Louis really doesn't feel like having it again. Tomorrow afternoon Nick, Gemma and Zayn are boarding a plane to New York, where they have been invited to appear in the NYCB's production of _Romeo and Juliet_. So, for now, he lets it drop and shakes his head quietly.

Nick strokes his fingers through his hair.

"It's not a completely ridiculous idea," Nick tacks on. Because Nick is awful and always have to have the last word in an argument − even in an argument where Louis hasn't said a word. But if Nick is awful, Louis must be an idiot because he's sort of in love with this awful person. "Think about it, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He agrees because it's the right thing to do, not because he actually has the money in his bank account right now to follow his boyfriend across the Atlantic.

When Nick leans in to kiss him, Louis sighs happily against his mouth, already meeting him halfway.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

The airport is a mess of sleepy hugs goodbye and longer, more lingering moments of holding hands and promising to call as soon as they land and Zayn stands there, watching the two couples and feeling completely left out.

It's been four weeks (not yet a month) since he and Zac called it quits and Zayn still feels like there's a part of him missing. He's been bumping into the coffee table more than usual recently, like he's forgotten it's there or something, and the bruises on his hip sting as he walks towards security, shrugging off his hoodie to go through the metal detectors. Gemma skips passed him with a loud, childish, "Skipping you, loser," when he takes too long getting off his rings, and on the other side, he bumps his hip into her, knocking her into the table as she neatly reorganises her passport and boarding pass in her bag.

On the plane, he holds her hand for takeoff. He's never been a great traveller. "Thanks."

"I'll look after you," she promises.

When the fasten your seatbelt sign above them switches off, Zayn releases his belt and pushes away the armrest between them; Gemma slumps into him gracelessly, waking up from her half sleep, and making a noise through her open mouth.

"You're great," he tells her, sarcastic to the bone.

Across the aisle from them, Nick is snoring.

Gemma wakes up fully as the steward passes through to ask everyone if they would like something to drink. It might be just gone ten o'clock but Zayn considers ordering a beer, knowing Gemma would join him with a glass of Rioja if he went with it. But she has one eye closed, her hair fluffed up with static from lying against him, and he says, "Two bottles of water, thanks," handing over a £5 note and not getting much change back.

He hums to himself, a little put out, and slips it into his pocket.

"Is it weird I want a colouring book?" Gemma asks him, looking out the window. Yes, Zayn thinks, it is weird, but now that she's said it, he kinda wants one too, so rather than tell her either of these things, he shrugs. Gemma doesn't bother picking up the conversation and, eventually, Zayn falls asleep against her.

He wakes up with a crick in his neck and a boner, neither of which are great, and he struggles for a moment with getting out from under Gemma's arm where she's tossed it over his shoulder, pressing herself further into the wall of the plane and giving Zayn all the space, and not wanting to move because there's something warm and familiar about the weight of someone's arm around him. He just about manages to stumble to the toilets up at the front, carefully slipping passed a stewardess without pressing too close. God. He practically trips in the doorway, knee catching on the front of the toilet and making him hiss.

Zayn doesn't jerk off. He can't. He just needs a minute to centre himself.

To calm down so he can go back out there and sleep next to Gemma again without turning into her and pressing his dick into the soft of her thigh.

Fuck.

He needs to get laid.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

It's funnier than it should be, all of them giggling and shuffling along through JFK once Zayn sets Gemma right and fixes the strap of her purse on her shoulder.

The pole she knocked down stays down and as they get closer and closer to the arrivals hall, Nick regrets not being quicker and getting his phone out of his pocket to take a photo of her, instagramming her as she lay sprawled out across the floor like a giant starfish. But he misses it, the moment gone and slipping further and further into the past with every step through the airport they take.

He forgets about it − forgets about Gemma on the ground and Zayn's squawk-giggle as she groaned and lay there − when he spots RJ, holding a sign with their names on it, waiting for them on the other side of the arrivals floor.

RJ is blonde, tall and 22. His smile is lopsided and he's been dancing since he was three because, "All my sisters did ballet and _apparently_ I wanted to know what all the fuss was about, so my mom caved and signed me up." Nick instagrams a photo of him with the sign, then another while his driving them to the apartment.

 _say hello to romeo_ he captions it with. Then tucks his phone away in his top pocket before he can do anything more with it.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Louis tries not to think about it.

They all called on the first night, yelling various greetings and trying not to sound too drunk. It didn't work, since the first thing Harry asked was, "How drunk are you guys?" and Zayn had replied something about a scale of one to ten and 'we're about a solid seven'. Harry had laughed, while Louis had turned his face away from the phone, trying not to think about how far away they all were and how they were all going to bed at the time he and Harry were getting up to go into the studio.

He saw the photo. And Harry knows he saw the photo, but he's good enough not to mention it. (They have this unspoken agreement that if Louis is doing something dumb involving Nick, Harry can't mention it because Louis really doesn't want to talk about it. Same way if Harry walks in on something going on between Louis and Nick that is obviously sexual, he really doesn't want to know about it − that one ended up written on about fifty post-its stuck artfully across the hall towards the front door after the third time Harry had walked in on Louis and Nick in flagrante on the couch. "Please don't tell me, I don't need to know!" all over the place in Harry's messy scrawl.) Not even when Louis deep sighs into his tea at breakfast or during warm up when he looks at Harry _just so_.

In the end, he brings it up himself on the way home from the gym. His hair is still wet from the shower, the back of his collar around his neck getting more damp as they walk along, and Louis says to Harry, "He seems cute."

It takes Harry a second but then his face illuminates, and he nods. "RJ? Yeah, he's good."

Louis frowns. How does Harry know what RJ's like? He doesn't ask, mainly because he doesn't want to know. "Do you know if they're staying with him?"

Harry shakes his head. "I don't think so," he answers. His house is about a block away but he already has his fingers stuffed into his pocket, touching the key to the front door. "I just think he was the one sent to pick them up; you'll have to ask Nick."

_Nick._

Louis kicks a pebble.

Abruptly, he changes the subject with: "You doing anything tonight?"

"It's the first day of rehearsals − I was going to get an early night." _Was_ Louis notes. That's the spirit, Styles. "What have you got in mind?"

They end up in the Duke's Head, because the beer is good and because Greg is on an early shift tonight, meaning he can come and join them. (Sometimes Louis thinks they need to find more friends. Other times, he _knows_ they need more friends.) He comes off the clock after ten and comes to join them, as Harry is starting to droop but he's too good of a friend to drop out before Louis is ready.

When he's drunk enough, Louis whines out the question, "But who is he?" He doesn't need to look at the clock to know it's before midnight. Harry deep sighs, bowing out of the conversation with a less than subtle 'I'm going to get more drinks', his foot catching on the leg of the table but he steadies himself on Greg's shoulder. Louis repeats the question, adding, "Tell me that, Gregory," to the end. He looks completely lost. Louis sighs dramatically. "RJ King," he clarifies.

"That's Romeo, isn't it?"

Otherwise Greg follows Nick on instagram as religiously as Louis does or Nick (or Gemma or Zayn) has mentioned him before and Louis wasn't listening. He decides it's the latter, more than likely, since Louis often doesn't listen and Greg doesn't seem like the type of person to stalk Nick.

"Yeah," Louis agrees.

Harry comes back with two packets of crisps and three drinks, tossing a bag of ready salted at Louis' head. He states, "You need the carbs."

Greg opens his mouth to say something but Harry shakes his head.

"Don't," he warns.

Four hours later, all three of them are in A&E in Old Broad Street Hospital. Despite the seven pints he has had previously, Harry is doing his best to fill out an admission form on Louis' behalf, while he lies crying on a gurney. Greg holds his hand, reassuring him every thirty seconds or so that a nurse will be along in a minute, before checking, "Nearly done, Styles?"

The lead up to it goes a little bit like this:

Louis is drunk. So drunk he is flirting with everything. This girl's name is Eleanor and she's got long, dark hair hanging around her shoulders and a mouth Louis would really like to feel against his. He thinks he says this to her because next, she flushes pretty pink across her cheeks and Louis feels himself leaning in closer, enamoured with how the shade looks on her. Of course, Harry has to ruin it.

"C'mon, Lou," he orders, suddenly appearing at Louis' side, breaking the moment he had going with Eleanor.

She makes a noise. It's disgusting how endearing Louis finds it. He glares at Harry through thinned eyes, willing him away, his whole face reading 'please fuck off' and 'can't you see I'm busy here?' but Harry, being fucking Harry, doesn't budge. He practically starts tapping his foot, the way Louis' mum used to when she'd wait at the bottom of the stairs for him to come the fuck on while he was arsing around, trying to delay going to school. Louis scoffs.

To Eleanor, he says, "Sorry, my minder's here. I'll see you around, yeah?"

The smile she gives him is one he tucks away in the back of his head for safe keeping. It's gorgeous.

To Harry, once well out of Eleanor's earshot, he says, "It was just banter, mate."

Harry draws out the vowel. "Right."

By the time Greg catches up with them − "I left my coat, I'll be right back." − it has descended into a full argument; Harry tries to pull Louis with him but Louis, feeling childish and too drunk for sense right now, is tugging back. Neither one of them is very steady on their feet. "I know you," Harry insists, all but dragging Louis along the pavement behind him. "And I know what flirting looks like."

"So what?" Louis counters, louder than he needs to but his ears are ringing from the bass back in the bar and, really, who cares if he's shouting. "If I want to flirt, I can flirt."

Harry opens his mouth, inhaling a breath. He can't choose whether he wants to go with the obvious 'you have a boyfriend' or 'we're going home' and leaving it at that − he knows he has to stay something but Louis yanks his arm away violently before he can get the words settled in his head.

He announces, stumbling back a step but staying upright, "Yeah. I would have kissed her. But that's fine."

All Harry does is sigh but it seems to provoke Louis further.

"Oh, stop. Like you wouldn't kiss someone else if they offered?"

Greg tries, "Can we-" but Harry cuts him off with a stern hand. "Sorry," he apologises, to no one in particular.

Harry states, "Not four days after she's been gone, no."

Louis scoffs. He means to take a step forwards but ends up going left instead, but he walks through it, making it look like that is exactly what he meant to do. He's a fucking genius if he says so himself. "Right. Well, Nick wouldn't care." It even sounds like a lie, but Louis is too drunk for anything else right now − he can't be wrong. "He wouldn't care at all. In fact, he's probably off kissing half of New York right now."

Sometimes Harry wonders if Louis is a huge drama queen or if he's just really stupid about his own feelings. He feels sixteen again, dragging his drunk friend home as he rabbits on and on about love not being serious; Louis hasn't reached that point yet, but if Harry lets him continue, it'll take only a few more sentences to get there. He makes a grab for Louis with a quiet, "Alright," letting him have it because anything is easier than what they have now, but Louis sidesteps him.

This time when he stumbles, he doesn't catch himself and he falls completely off the pavement.

Another two hours in A&E and a doctor tells Harry, "Broken collarbone."

They haven't even been gone a week and Harry has managed to break one of Louis' bones. He dials Gemma's number after slipping out of a side entrance, coming across a few hospital staff smoking outside; he dials Gemma's number because Gemma is less likely to freak out than Nick is.

She answers with a sleepy, "'lo?" and something inside Harry starts to get warm, as if he's filling with happy feelings just from hearing her voice. "Harry?"

"Hey, hi, hi," he pushes out, all in one go and on top of each other. "How are you?"

"I was asleep. Everything ok?"

After making sure she is awake enough to understand him, Harry tells her about Louis' accident, how he tumbled right off the edge of the pavement and managed to smash his shoulder so brutally into the tarmac of the road, he broke his collarbone in two places. She makes a noise, a squashed sound of a half laugh, half gasp, and Harry gets distracted, imagining her lying under the covers, hair ruffled and her shoulders bare. Once he recentres himself − and it takes more than ten seconds − he goes on to explain about Louis crying on the way to the hospital and how Harry had to fill out the forms twice because the first time he tried, he filled it out for himself and only realised when he got the part about next of kin and he couldn't decide between putting his sister or his mum.

"How is he? Other than a broken collarbone?" Gemma asks once he's done. She sounds more awake now and Harry feels bad for disturbing her but isn't ready to let her go yet.

The carpark of a hospital is no place to tell her that though.

"Sling for eight weeks and no dancing or strenuous activity," Harry explains. "So, he's not best pleased with that."

There's a rustle of sheets as she says, "I can imagine."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

When Nick calls him, Louis isn't expecting it. Which makes it difficult to come up with anything to say. Although, that also might be because of the pain medication they've given him, which made him text _i miss broccoli_ to Stan earlier, which is something he could tell Nick but doesn't. The phonecall ends when someone in the background calls his name − not Gemma or Zayn, too much of an American lilt to it and Louis has to fight himself to stop his brain making his mouth say 'is that RJ?' − and he says, "Alright, love, I've got to go."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Their first day off from rehearsals and Nick wants to sleep. Zayn agrees he has a point, take advantage of all the breaks they've got, rest up so the next day doesn't hurt as much as the previous − Abramovic was right about ballet being purposely injuring yourself − but they've been in New York for nearly two weeks now and the closest they've got to any of the sites was when RJ was driving them from the airport on the first day.

Thankfully, Gemma is up for going adventuring.

They spend a delightful twenty minutes in the station arguing over which train to take − Zayn just about thinks he's won when Gemma points out he's holding the map upside, her tone suggesting she's known that all along and was waiting for the right time to play her ace. He thins his eyes at her, carefully turning it around, and says, "Right, fine. We need this one."

"You sure?" she asks seriously.

With a huff, he hands her the map to fold, not bothering to wait for her to get it into her bag before he grabs her hand and leads her through the crowds. (It _does_ turn out to be the wrong train, but Gemma stays quiet, letting Zayn have it while she figures out if there's any stops they can swap onto the right train at. Zayn just hopes the view from the top of the thing are a suitable pay off for the morning they've had. They're getting alcohol with lunch, no matter what time they go for it because so far, their trip to the Empire State Building has been a nightmare.)

Gemma clucks her tongue against her teeth, forking over a $50 to get to the top deck. But Zayn insists, "It's true."

"We aren't trying it," she says to him, then to the ticket vendor, "Thank you," as he hands her $6 in change.

"You sure you don't want to test out the theory," he says, eyeing her change before she stuffs it in her back pocket. Gemma shakes her head as she makes a disapproving noise, muttering something about not wanting to go to jail for science.

Once again, Zayn takes her hand as they wait for the lift, more of a habit now that anything else but it does make it easier to stick together in the crowd. (If Zayn had ever had any worries he was claustrophobic, the journey up to the main deck, 86 storey high and crammed in with 60 other people inside a metal box, proves he _almost certainly_ doesn't suffer from it.) The doors in front of them open and Zayn tightens his grip, pulling her after him. She stumbles a little, apologising to the person on her left after she accidentally elbows him in the side, but Zayn keeps pulling her along, only stopping once they've reached the safety railing.

There, stretched out in front of them, carrying on and on into the horizon, is New York.

They both breathe out, "Holy shit," and Zayn turns to look at Gemma as she smiles at the coincidence.

He has to let go of her hand so she can hold the edge of the railing, and something akin to regret flutters in his throat. But he stays quiet, letting her wrap her fingers through the metal and lean forwards. "We are a quarter of a mile up," he states, matter-of-factly. When she turns to look at him, a little bit amazed looking, he nods towards a sign on his right, giving away all credit to the white metal board. Gemma still looks impressed and Zayn takes it, filing the look on her face away as something important and just for him.

Up on the top floor observation deck, Gemma doesn't let go of his hand.

If anything, she holds it tighter than before, and she leans in and says, "You can feel the building swaying." Zayn can't say he's noticed it but now that she's said it-

He squeezes her hand in his.

As they walk through Central Park − "I can't believe Central Perk isn't a real place." "Has this rocked your whole world view?" "Fuck off, Malik, I'm distraught." − it's easy to forget that he's Zayn Malik and she's Gemma Arterton and the only reason they're in the city is for ballet-related-activities, which they will have to return to tomorrow (and who the fuck knows when they're going to get to see any more of the city?). It's easy to imagine them as two people, wandering through New York together. Zayn hasn't let go of her hand since they paid for coffee at the kiosk they found at the park gate, their fingers intertwined as they amble along to the nearest bench.

They sit and Gemma drops his hand to split the cookie she insisted they buy, and when she hands over his half their fingers brush. And Gemma meets his face with a smile to match his own.

It astonishes him, really and truly, how it easy it is to forget who they are, who they're meant to be.

(It's probably something to do with the fact he's been dumped. And maybe because Gemma has one of those faces, one of those unthinkably good faces that lures you in, makes you take in every facial expression she has, so Zayn finds himself believing every one of her smiles. But, fuck, Zayn has never noticed before how easy it is to fall in love with Gemma Arterton.)

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

He's not quite sure how it happens but the second week stops being the second and starts being the third, which itself stops being the third and starts being the fourth week since Nick has been gone, and auditions are suddenly two days away.

Harry informs him, "I'm not going to go for anything." 

And Louis hums back at him, pretending not to care while he scrolls through Nick's instagram feed. He hasn't done much else since he came off the pain medication and realised that the reality of having a broken collarbone sucks a lot when he isn't doped out of his mind. He hasn't danced and hasn't spoken about it − about the fact he was flirting with someone else, about the fact Nick is far away, about the fact he hasn't danced − and like always, Harry is too considerate of his best friend's feelings to try and make him.

He asks, "Why not?" Because that's where the conversation should go and if Harry can be a good best friend then so can Louis. "You'd be perfect for-" He has to stop, suddenly hit by the fact he can't remember what they're putting on, like being away from rehearsals and everyone else has wiped his memory clean. Louis frowns. "You'd just be perfect."

Harry chuckles. "Thanks."

"Why aren't you auditioning?" Louis looks away from his phone, pushing the button on the side to dim the backlight of the screen. "If it's because of me, that's stupid."

"That's part of it," Harry offers in reply. "You and. The others. It doesn't feel right without them here."

Louis can't help frowning. He supplies, "But they're dancing without us."

He's never admit it, but Louis thinks about this a lot. He finds himself daydreaming about being with them, watching Gemma stretch as she prepares to jump down the stairs to Juliet's balcony, to join RJ-as-Romeo at the bottom; listening to Nick gripe on and one about wardrobe not letting him have feathers on his Tybalt costume, since he has worn some sort of feathered garment for all his roles over the past three years and it's sort of his trademark now; sitting with Zayn, knees knocking together backstage as they wait for someone to come and find them. He thinks about them all, not just Nick, and sometimes Louis thinks he's driving himself mad because not only can he not dance at home, in London, but he definitely can't dance in New York with the other three.

Lightly, Harry places his hand on Louis' elbow. "That's different."

Louis knows that. Getting invited to dance for another ballet company is a honour − was he annoyed that Nick, Gemma and Zayn got invited and he didn't? Sure. But there's no denying how proud of the three of them he was. . . Still is − and anyone who turns it down is a moron. But-

Yeah. Basically.

Sounding very like a mother attempting to placate their grumpy child, Harry says, "We can call them later, yeah?"

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

The address Alexa gives them leads them to a large house about a block from the station, three storeys tall and every light illuminated as they knock on the door. To Zayn, who hasn't lived in anything bigger than a two-bedroom apartment since he moved to London, the place seems palatial. And Nick just has to ask, "Do you think they own the whole thing?"

Gemma doesn't have time to answer before the door opens, Alexa and Matt appearing in the space the wood used to take up, and ushering all three of them inside. (They're such a cute couple Gemma notes, shrugging off her coat and handing it to Matt. It only makes her miss Harry more.)

"Here, try this," she is told by Marcel, swept into the party before she has time to compliment Alexa's dress and thank them for inviting her. "It's illegal in most of mainland Europe. And Canada." 

Typical Marcel.

She looks at him, not looking for more on an explanation, and sounds out, "Well, if it's illegal in Canada." Gemma comes back from swallowing it spluttering; it doesn't taste of anything really, just the sharp sting of alcohol on the back of her tongue. "Shit. Shit, what the fuck is that?"

Pouring her another shot of it, "Cannabis flavoured absinthe. Good, right?"

Those aren't the words she would use to describe it at all, but Gemma finds herself accepting the second shot and knocking it back in one go − she coughs less from it this time, something she shouldn't be proud of but finds herself to be. After that, the next couple of hours are a tad blurry. But she doesn't lose anything − not anything important anyway, only people, like Zayn and Nick and Alexa and eventually Marcel − which is an accomplishment in itself and makes things a lot easier when the girl beside her tips her on the hip and asks, "Is that you or me ringing?"

Gemma rummages in her bag to discover it's her.

"Excuse me," she whispers, but her voice gets lost in the volume of the music and no one really seems to care anyway, so she slips from the group and makes her way to the bathroom. "Hello?" she answers, finally.

Louis sighs. "You."

"Me," Gemma agrees.

She catches sight of herself in the mirror, muttering out a quiet 'oh God' while Louis launches into some long winded story about auditions and rehearsals and Harry, and how Harry isn't going to audition because of Louis' broken bone and her not being there, but Gemma just has to stop him to ask, "What time is it where you are?"

The frown on his face is clear in his tone.

"After two. I couldn't call you when he was awake."

"That means it's. . . I have no idea what time it is here. Why are you calling me?" She realises she should have started with that but her hair was a bigger issue. One she hasn't managed to fix yet. There's a bath beside her, a black duck with a red beak and tiny red devil horns on his head sitting on the edge − if she hitched her skirt up, she could climb into it and have a nap. But Louis is still talking to her and- Oh, right. Listening, she's listening.

"-auditioning." He stops, obviously done.

Gemma breathes out, pinching the top of her nose between forefinger and thumb, and asks, "Sorry, can you repeat that? The reception in here is crap."

"Harry isn't auditioning."

"Why not?"

So much for pretending to listen, Arterton, she scolds herself. Louis explains, "Because of me. And you. Or something. I can't make him change his mind."

Gemma thinks she's caught up now. "And you want me to try and get him to audition?"

"Yes."

If Louis was with her, he'd probably be shaking her. Fuck, all she wants to do is go to sleep. Why did she let Marcel pour her all those shots? Where are Zayn and Nick? Would the duck judge her if she fell asleep or is he a nice duck, despite his devil horns? "If he doesn't want to audition," she says, suddenly remembering it is her turn to speak but Louis doesn't sigh as much this time − maybe he has run out of sighs? − "there's nothing I can do to convince him to."

The noise Louis makes it somewhere between a scoff and a grunt.

Gemma throws a sigh of her own back at him, hoping the connection and the distance don't take away from how hard she means it. She orders, "Go wake him up." When she doesn't hear Louis move, she states, "Go on, go and wake him. He did it to me the other day, it's only fair."

"Fine," Louis replies, already trudging through the house with the phone cord dragging behind him, catching on the corner of the hall wall but everything remains attached. He wakes Harry with a less than delicate, "Oi, phone. Phone." And Gemma catches sight of herself smiling in the mirror, goofy and overly affectionate as she imagines Harry sitting up in bed, taking the phone from Louis and gripping it so tightly his knuckles bleach to white.

She greets him with a soft, "Hello, you."

It takes her by surprise how sobering it is to talk to him, how she suddenly feels more solid and human because Louis needs her to get Harry to audition. "Louis says you're not going to audition." Harry grumbles something back at her, a mess of vowel sounds, slower than his usual speaking speed but all Gemma can do is smile down the line at him, hoping it reaches across the ocean to him. "Why not?"

"S'not right," he answers, a proper sentence. Sort of. "You're not here."

Gemma grips the edge of the sink to steady herself, her heels making the balls of her feet ache from standing still for too long. "I think you should."

In his sleep-thick slur, Harry insists, "It's not just you. It's all of you. You and Zayn and Nick. And Louis."

"Louis wants you to audition as well."

Harry still doesn't sound convinced.

She shifts all her weight onto her right leg, bending her left knee to lift her foot from the floor, giving it a break. God, couldn't Louis have picked a better time for this? Why is he awake at this hour of the morning anyway? Fuck sake. "What if," she begins, still thinking it through. "What if I go and find Zayn and Nick and you can ask them if you should audition or not? Cos I don't think they'd want you not to just because we aren't there."

He makes an affirmative noise before explaining to Louis what's going on. Which means Gemma now has to go and find the other two, something she hadn't quite managed before but- 

She'll see how this goes.

As it turns out, Zayn finds her, materialising around the entrance to the kitchen and beaming broadly at the sight of her. Gemma thrusts the phone at him, making him step back in shock. "Uh."

"Harry. Not auditioning; tell him you think it's a good idea."

He takes the phone just in time to hear Harry's voice filter down the line with a gentle, "Hello, mate. How are you?"

Zayn can't help smiling at him. Gemma settles in next to him, nose tucking in against his cheekbone so she can hear. ( _Obviously_.) "I'm ok, good. Yeah," he tells him. "Now, what's this I hear about you not wanting to audition this season?"

"You guys aren't here."

"I'm aware of that, thanks."

Harry's indignant noise is one of Zayn's favourite things about Harry. With a soft chuckle, he says, "C'mon, Styles. You've got to audition. You'll break her heart if you don't. And I'll never forgive you if you do that."

You'll break her heart, he says. And I'll never forgive you for it. Zayn feels Gemma's breath catch in her throat for a second, a small gasp on her lips. _And I'll never forgive you._ Harry comes back with, "And what about your heart?" his tone too soft for playful, but Zayn brushes that off to bad connection and the fact Harry was so rudely woken not so long ago.

"My heart?" Zayn repeats.

"Mmm," Harry agrees, "yes, your heart."

Zayn reaches for Gemma's hand − a bad habit now, no longer just a habit − as he thinks of what to say. "Same as hers, I guess. You'll break both our hearts if you don't audition. And Nick's too, I'm sure. And Louis'. All of our hearts will be broken by you, Harry Styles, if you don't audition."

Good cover up, Malik. Well done.

Gemma's finger scuffs against the hem of his pocket when she squeezes his hand, reassuring and warm.

Together, they both listen to Harry say, "Well, I suppose I'd better audition then."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Spearing at his salad with his plastic spork, Nick asks, "Who is Louis auditioning for then? Now that I'm not there, he has his pick of roles."

Under the table, Gemma kicks him squarely in the shin, rolling her eyes when he looks up at her. She reminds him, "He can't audition. Not with his broken collarbone." She looks at him like she wants to ask 'are you dense or something?' but it never comes. "Harry wasn't going to because of it, actually."

"Really?"

"No, I made that up," she retorts, sighing deeply at the corn in her salad. She has never really liked corn all that much but the coaches keep reminding the dancers that it is good for them, a good source of protein without eating too much red meat. So, dutifully she eats it. "Zayn and I convinced him to audition."

Nick chews through his next mouthful, face still but it's all there, in his eyes. And if he's going to play that way, Gemma can play back just as dirty.

"When was the last time you spoke to Louis?"

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

There's no such thing as Google alerts for Gemma Arterton, so Harry has to check through things to find any news of Gemma when she doesn't call him for the bones of a week and he's left sitting there, wondering how she is, how things are until one afternoon, before he heads to his audition, he opens up the browser on his phone and checks Nick's instagram.

No, he assures himself. He isn't anything as bad as Louis, who Harry leaves for the studio every morning and comes home every evening to find scrolling through Nick's twitter and instagram feeds. But Gemma doesn't have her own twitter or instagram − if was enough of a struggle to get her onto Facebook and the only reason Harry wanted her to join was so he could say he was in a relationship with her, and his mum could call him and coo at how cute the tagged photos of them together were − so Harry has to make do with Nick's.

But he supplies.

The first picture is Zayn, grumpily scowling over the rim of a coffee cup and the caption _5am starts aren't for everyone_ underneath. Harry's mouth quirks into a smile at the arch of Zayn's eyebrows. After that, none of the others really interest him; a few photos of ballet dancers Harry doesn't know (he'll end up going back to look at them but now he's got 15 minutes to himself and he just wants to see his girlfriend's face) and some blurry shots of New York from various taxi rides home after dinners and some fronts of bars with people posing ridiculously next to signs for half price cocktails.

He's down to little over 10 minutes left when he finds Gemma. 

Though he can't tell it's Gemma at first.

It's a video, a large play symbol in a circle in the centre of the screen, and what looks like a view from a balcony behind whoever is standing in the middle. The caption reads _I woke up to the most wonderful view this morning_. He only means to scroll by it, not sure if he wants to see who the person is and have to ask why Nick is waking up with people to look at in New York, but he must press his thumb down on the screen.

The volume is super loud, a few people further down the hall looking away from their conversation to cast judgemental eyes over him and by the time Harry has it sorted, the video has stopped and there. In the middle of the screen, is Gemma's face.

His quickly hits play again.

She has a hula hoop around her hips, her legs bare underneath the hoodie she obviously wore as pyjamas and in the background, he can hear Zayn's voice. He can't make out what he says but it makes Gemma laugh, as Nick's voice behind the camera announces, "It's too early for that, Arterton."

12 seconds long. That's it. Less than half a minute of Gemma hula hooping, laughing, with a backdrop of New York at 8am behind her.

Harry watches it over and over again until he's called into the audition.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"How did he do, then?" Nick asks.

Today, Louis' collarbone aches. It ached when he was in the shower before breakfast, it is aching now as he sits on the couch on the phone to Nick, and it will probably ache later when he's lying on his bed trying to decide if he can get through another chapter or if he should put his book away and try to go to sleep. But Nick hasn't asked about that. No.

He has asked about Harry, which means Harry hasn't told Gemma yet.

Louis wonders if Gemma is sitting near him and should he ask to talk to her instead. He doesn't say this, of course, but it probably comes across in the way he snips out, "He didn't get anything."

"Oh."

Yeah.

_Oh._

They fall into silence. Louis really has no news for Nick − not unless he wants to hear about the spider Louis spent an hour watching trap, kill and eat a fly just over the corner of the TV, but considering Nick's fear of spiders, Louis doesn't think that little anecdote will go down so well − and Nick isn't really giving him anything to work with. But Louis doesn't hang up. Because-

Even if he won't admit it aloud, having Nick on the phone like this is nice. It's nice to have him, knowing he isn't worrying about rushing off. Even if he hasn't asked Louis about his broken bone in a while or hasn't said 'I miss you' since he's been gone.

(Then again, neither has Louis but shhhh.)

"Is he ok?" Nick asks. Louis makes a noise and all Nick says in reply is, "Yeah, he'll be fine."

More quiet and Louis feels himself preparing to hang up. He just needs the right excuse and he can go, the silence now threatening and awkward, pointing out all the things they could be talking about rather than just sitting there, comfortable while they both breath softly down the line at one another.

"I should-"

"You know if you double-tap the picture it automatically likes it for you," Nick says at the same time. Louis' throat releases a strangled noise as he tries to catch up. With a sigh, soft and somewhat fond sounding, Nick explains, "On instagram. If you double-tap on a photo, it likes it. I keep getting emails about you liking everything I post there."

Louis groans. "Christ."

"It's alright, love. It's cute."

He knows how this is meant to go. He is meant to say 'I miss you' and Nick is meant to say it back, softly, maybe a little teary cos it's the first time they're admitting it. But Louis is too sore to play this role right now and embarrassment is coiling hot and irritating in his stomach as he realises that. Fuck. He has liked all of Nick's photos from the last month and a half and no one had told him. God. Everyone in the NYCB must think he is a total knob.

"Yeah," he goes with, since he has nothing better. "That's me. Cute."

It passes the conversation over to Nick.

But, as it turns out, Nick is as disinterested in the role as Louis is. "I should get going," he tells him. Louis hangs up fairly quickly after that.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Friday nights on the rooftop bar seem to have become a tradition. They've been here for almost two months and currently, Zayn's head is pillowed on Gemma's lap while she strokes his air and everything has begun to take on that feeling of 'familiar' and 'can we call this place home?'. It's odd. Maybe even a little upsetting how easy it is for feelings to change like that.

When Zayn gets up to get in another round of drinks, Gemma insisting she only wants water this time but knowing she's going to be handed something else, she slides her phone out of her pocket.

Two missed calls from Harry, both within the last hour.

She excuses herself from the table politely, hits redial and waits for him to answer. His 'hello' is short and Gemma frowns. "Sorry," she apologises, not fully meaning it. "I'm out." She expects there to be a childish 'you're always out' or something similar but Harry doesn't supply it. It eases the nagging feeling in her throat marginally. "Everything alright?"

He says, "I didn't get a part."

"Nothing?" Not that she doesn't believe him, but she feels the need to clarify it. 

There's a shuffling sound, like he nods against the phone even though she can't see him. It makes something uncomfortable in her stomach ache, something she can't fully describe. "I feel like- I thought it went well, but I must have messed up." Harry whispers, "I guess I don't work without you."

She almost returns the sentiment. Almost. But she can't lie to him. Gemma can't tell him 'I don't work without you either' when she does. She has been. Every day in rehearsals with RJ, it's been good. Sure, the occasional fuck up and stumble and pushing themselves too hard some nights, but nothing she wouldn't experience with any other dancer. Even off stage she has Zayn and Nick, the backdrop of New York buildings no different to the ones back home in London. God. She misses him. But-

"Course you do," she says. "Was just a bad audition."

It isn't great. And it definitely isn't what Harry wants to hear, his reply abrupt and snapped out: "Thanks."

"I miss you." She gives him the truth, the only way she can put it, but it comes out like a lie. Like she only says it because it's the right thing to say. Like a mother placating their whining child. Harry doesn't accept it. "Harry," she says. Her voice is thinner now, quieter. At the table, Zayn has come back with drinks and is chatting to Nick. Gemma closes her eyes, giving all her attention to Harry. "I'm sorry. Please. I shouldn't have said that." She's not quite sure which part she's apologising for.

She hears the sag in his body as he answers, "I really miss you."

"So don't make this harder."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Louis watches every video the NYCB website posts of the rehearsals. Even the ones where Nick doesn't appear within the first three minutes, he watches them the whole way through in the hopes he'll turn up, just for a split second. The thing is, they talk nearly every day − definitely every other day. But there's something about seeing Nick's face moving as he laughs, watching him step towards Gemma as her proud, easily angered cousin, that makes something soft filter through to Louis' fingers and he settles for a moment. Only a moment. But it's enough. Seeing Nick like that, to calm him.

Today, Gemma hasn't appeared in the video at all but Zayn has been in it four times. (Louis misses them all, sometimes the other two more than Nick because they don't drive him up the wall sending him drunken texts or falling asleep in the middle of Skype calls.) There has also been a lot of RJ.

God.

RJ.

Louis knows his face well from Nick's instagram feed. At this stage, somewhere at the beginning of the second month, more than a month and a half left, Louis feels he could close his eyes and draw the boy from memory. And he has to admit, he has a good face. A good face and a lead role and, most importantly, he's there while Louis is sat at home, on the couch, with a broken collarbone. (He can practically feel his arm withering away from lack of use.) Fuck.

He turns the video off when Zayn appears for the fifth time, smiling and twirling his sword between his fingers, RJ next to him in a pair of baggy shorts and not much else, totally unsuitable clothing for rehearsals.

Maybe he's a glutton for punishment or maybe all the time spent on the couch, feeling sorry for himself has driven Louis mad, because he doesn't shut his browser down and find something else to do − no, instead he returns to the front page of the website and scrolls down through the other videos and blog posts.

He stops at one.

In the video still, Gemma is wearing Harry's sweater. Louis wonders how many people know that, a smug smile spreading across his face as he thinks he may be one of three people who does. The blurb beside it explains Matt − whoever Matt is − bumped into Gemma backstage during rehearsals one day and they 'sat down to have a chat about her role and what she's been up to in New York'; ridiculously clichéd and obviously prearranged (because Louis knows what Gemma looks like backstage at rehearsals, sweaty and tired and a little pink, no way in the mood to be interviewed about anything) but he clicks the play logo all the same.

The guy talking to her is overly chipper. Gemma scratches her right shoulder with the opposite hand, her arm forming a barrier around herself in a noticeably defensive move, and when she answers the first question, her tone is her 'I'm being interviewed' voice, nothing about her anything like the Gemma Louis knows away from the stage and shows.

He asks all the general questions, Gemma answering each one politely, smiling occasionally.

All in all, it's a very standard interview. The only time Gemma lights up, becomes easy about herself, is when the interviewer − Matt, Louis realises, that's Matt − mentions Zayn and Nick. He says to her, "So, you've come with your partner, Zayn Malik, but you aren't dancing with him," but phrases it like a question.

Gemma laughs, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "He's not my full time partner but no. I'm not dancing with him − he's playing Mercutio."

"And is that weird for you?"

"No." She's honest. "I've danced with a lot of people, some multiple times and some I work with only once − that's just how it goes."

Matt pushes, "But you miss Zayn?"

Gemma returns with a grin. "I miss a lot of my old partners."

"Any in particular?" Louis groans at the screen. Fuck off, mate. Gemma blushes, turning her head down to smile at the ground. "Like, Harry Styles?" Louis wants to flick at his head but knows it won't do anything. Except damage his screen.

Gemma comes back up, her face glowing around her smile. Something inside Louis aches at the sight of her, fond and familiar, remembering a similar look on her face one night as they sat on the edge of the pavement outside a chip shop and she told Louis she really liked Harry. "Yeah," the Gemma on screen breathes out, nodding with it. "Yeah. I miss him a lot." And with that, the feeling in Louis sinks, replaced with another, more bitter than before.

He has to stop the video, shutting his laptop screen down and pushing it away.

Rising off the couch, he goes to make himself a cup of tea. Her voice repeats in his head while he waits for the kettle to boil, bag-in-cup already set out at his elbow. He sighs to himself, thinking about the easy way she said it − how _fucking_ easy it was for her to say 'I miss him'. To Matt, of all people. And if she can so easily say it to some stranger, how easily has she said it to Harry?

How many times?

How?

Louis flicks off the kettle. It's taking too long.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

In the morning, Harry makes breakfast.

Louis is scowling to himself after a rubbish night's sleep as he pushes the plate of bacon and eggs across the table to him. He keeps thinking of the interview, of the moment of Gemma in the hallway of the Institute in Harry's sweater, admitting she misses him.

"Are you alright?" Harry asks. He moves to poke Louis' arm but Louis isn't quick enough, jerking awkwardly so Harry's hand ends up wrapped over his wrist instead, fingers long and solid over the bone under Louis' skin.

He shakes his head but not really trying to get Harry off. He shouldn't be mad at him. It isn't his fault he's so easy to miss, so easy to feel everything for. Louis replies, "Just the weather, mate," and twitches his hand so his knuckles knock into Harry's palm. It makes Harry smile. "Think I'm bored."

"We should do something then," Harry offers.

After showering and washing up − because Harry is weird and likes to wash everything by hand despite the perfectly functioning dishwasher − Louis pulls on his hoodie as Harry tells him they're meeting Stan and Greg in the park, "and maybe some lunch." Greg's name surprises Louis; he hasn't seen Greg since he broke his collarbone, Greg admitting in text he's kinda scared of hanging out with Louis since he managed to break him last time.

It brings a smile to Louis' face, warming through him, the thought of seeing Greg since then.

They stay out for most of the day. Louis doesn't realise until they're in the middle of lunch that he has left his phone back in his room, but he waves it off when Harry offers him his to text Nick, stating, "Time difference. They're probably in rehearsals now."

Harry gives him a nod, agreeing with a soft, "Yeah."

Louis pretends not to notice the look on his friend's face when he checks his phone for the sixth time in an hour to find no texts waiting for him.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Her name is Sophie, one of RJ's friends, and they've flirted a couple of times on the side of the stage while waiting for their cues. She is Rosaline, beautiful cast against Gemma's Juliet. And when Zayn kisses her, closer to 1am than midnight on Sunday morning, a couple of people around them whoop and cheer, Nick's voice in the middle of them.

Zayn snaps out of it, quickly pulling back from her mouth.

He looks at her face and thinks- _Fuck_.

He bolts for the door, lighting up his cigarette before he's fully outside.

"Zayn," he hears behind him, Gemma smiling at the security guard in thanks as he lets her passed. "Zayn. You ok?" He can't look at her, taking a drag and exhaling it slowly out of his nose. He has been trying to quit, smoking being a terrible habit and all that, but he doesn't think Gemma is going to begrudge him it right now. "You alright?" she asks, now beside him.

In the orange glow of the streetlights her cheekbones stand out more than usual. Zayn feels himself leaning into her space more but distracts himself, taking another drag from his cigarette; he doesn't mean to blow the smoke into Gemma's face, but the wind takes it that way.

"Felt weird," he admits, finally.

Gemma nods. She asks, "First person since Zac, right?" All he can manage is a nod.

He stubs out the butt under his toe, grinding it into the cement underneath. Gemma lets him have the silence between them and it makes Zayn feel worse. He wants to tell her 'yeah it was weird cos it wasn't Zac' but also 'it wasn't you either'. But as he thinks the words, they sound stupid, almost childish.

Taking a step towards her, he sighs.

She pulls him in for a hug and Zayn doesn't put up that much of a fight against her. His mouth fits in against the angle of her jaw and behind his neck, Gemma holds her elbows, locking him in. His fingers itch to hold her hand, something he has become so used to over the last six weeks, but right now they make do settling on her hips and holding her to him.

The rhythm of their breathing matches up.

Someone trying to get passed offers them a small, "'Scuse me," and Gemma steps with Zayn towards the edge of the pavement. Overhead, the streetlight shines down on them like a spotlight; it makes it easy to pretend it's just them, on a stage, the rest of it black around them, unused, unimportant.

Gemma breathes against his ear and Zayn shudders in response.

She pulls away, carefully. She releases her arms around his neck, unlocks her fingers from around the bones and steps away. Zayn inhales a large breath just because. He looks away from her because he can't keep his eyes on her any longer − Gemma has freckles on the tip of her nose and although they have danced this close before, he has held her as her husband as she persuades him to murder a king and take the throne for himself, he can't handle it right now. Pathetic, really. It really says something about Zayn as a person that he can dance, can _be_ so close to Gemma a hundred times before but now can't even bring himself to look at the freckles on her nose.

He wonders if New York has changed them or if it's just him.

He thinks about it as Gemma says his name and it's here, right in this moment, Zayn realises his hands are still on her hips. It hits him with such force he has to catch his breath and Gemma turns his face to hers, catching him so off guard he has to stammer out a laugh.

"Ok?" she asks. Again. So many times she has asked and he hasn't answered.

He's not sure what he says, too focused on the press of her fingers under his chin, fingertips smooth against his stubble. But it makes her frown, her face flinching with it. Zayn automatically goes, "Nothing, nothing. I'm sorry."

And Gemma replies, "What? I-"

She never gets the chance to take the sentence further. Zayn pushes into her space with an inhale of breath, pushing in and pressing his mouth to hers. It doesn't last long, the barest hint of lip on lip, both of them holding their breath against one another until Zayn pulls back first, his exhale fluttering through the loose ends of her hair against her collarbone.

"Fuck."

He realises she is the one to say it, not him.

"Shit. I'm so sorry."

Zayn drops his hands from her hips and with that, Gemma steps away fully.

If Zayn was a better person, he would have gone after her straight away. He would have tried to stop her, pulled her back and apologised himself. Because what happened was not Gemma's fault. But, instead, he closes his eyes and breathes for a moment before taking the first step after her. But she's too far ahead already, her footsteps too quick. By the time he gets to her, she's already flagged down a taxi, the yellow door shutting behind her and leaving Zayn standing there, trying to work out what to say to Nick.

He doesn't flag down a taxi for himself.

If he remembers correctly, there's a pizza place this way, a late night hole-in-the-wall dive with excellent slices of margarita for cheap. So, lighting his second cigarette of the hour, Zayn wanders towards it. The tendrils of smoke drift off into the air, weirdly blue against the orange colouring of everything else.

As he searches through his pockets for his wallet, his fingers tip his phone. He takes it out. It's an automatic thing to dial Harry's number − first rule of Zayn's life: call Harry if Gemma's upset. He can't do the math quick enough to figure out what time it is in London, but Harry answers with a quiet, "'lo?" and Zayn feels himself sag, both smiling and sorry all at once.

"Hey," he replies. "Hey, Harry. Mate."

Harry makes a noise, clearly confused but probably blaming himself, newly woken and trying to catch up. Two people doesn't make a pattern, only a coincidence, but Zayn feels worse, confusing two people in one short space of time. "You ok?" he asks.

"You called me," Harry gives him. He's croaky and sleepy and Zayn pictures him lying back on the pillows as the sound of sheets rustling travels through the phone; with his hair a mess of tangled curls around him and the chains of his necklaces roped together around his throat. "Are you?"

He starts with, "Yeah," but that's a lie, and Zayn amends it to, "No. No. I'm- It should be you here."

Harry grumbles out a 'what'.

"It should be you here," he repeats. "Not me. Or Nick." A quick addition to cover up his guilt, fuck. Zayn doesn't know when it got so easy. And hard. Because he isn't telling Harry, just covering his tracks. He wonders where his pizza is, an age passed since he ordered it, and he explains, "It should be you here with her, not me. You should be here."

It's early in the morning in London, before his alarm and Harry is freshly (and rudely) awake while Zayn is babbling nonsense at him. But it's Harry. Loveable, good natured Harry, and he tells Zayn, "Yeah. Ok."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Nick finds her on the couch with the glow of the television illuminating everything blue and pink and white and back again. He doesn't need to ask what she's watching as he removes one of the lukewarm bottles of beer he's been carrying since they left the club and hands it to her. It's a screw top but it takes Gemma a while to work that out, keeping her hand out and waiting for a bottle opener.

He sits down next to her, taking a mouthful of beer − lukewarm beer is awful, always is no matter how good the beer is generally, but Nick buries his grimace in the rise of her side, curling his legs under himself as best he can. He hums softly as she begins to stroke his hair, fingers messing up his quiff beyond repair but Nick has nowhere else to be and Gemma is watching _Amadeus_ at just past 3am, so he wouldn't complain even if he had.

They both know better than to talk about it.

Gemma will tell if she wants to and Nick will listen when she does. For now, it's mostly about the press of him against her and the way Gemma quietly drinks her beer as Mozart spells out 'I love you' to his young wife under a table, Salieri watching them in almost disgust.

Instead, Nick offers:

"I miss him."

Gemma pulls the bottle away from her mouth, swallowing slowly. She gives him a hum, not really sounding like anything, before turning to look at him and asking Nick, "Have you told him that?"

Nick clinks the side of his bottle off hers and doesn't answer.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

It's easy to avoid talking to Gemma when Gemma doesn't try talking to him. Zayn drifts through the week without really seeing her − sure, sometimes they pass in the hallway during rehearsals or drift by one another late at night in the apartment, Zayn leaving the bathroom while Gemma passes into it to brush her teeth. It's easy because Gemma makes it easy and Zayn is too selfish to make it anything else. It's his fault, something they both know at this point, but still Gemma stays quiet about it. Mercutio and Juliet have no scenes together on stage, never meeting one another; life mimics art off stage. Zayn would feel guiltier about it if Gemma didn't make it so easy.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Louis doesn't watch the video of Matt interviewing Nick, closing the NYCB's website and opening his email. His inbox is a mess of emails about special offers from his hairdressers, various restaurants and the place his mum ordered her new carpets from. And one email from him.

According to the CC list, Harry has received it too.

Only Nick Grimshaw, Principle Dancer for the Royal Ballet, London, would begin an email with _From the greatest people you will ever know_ ; everyone else begins it with a 'hi' or a 'to whom it may concern'. Louis can't decide if it's endearing or awful, his face settling into a frown because it doesn't know what else to do.

He keeps reading.

His mouth falls open.

And he reads it again.

Really, the opening line should have read _From the greatest person you will ever know, Gemma Arterton_ because − if Louis is reading this correctly, and he thinks he just about is after the fourth read through − Gemma has gone and done the nicest and dumbest thing anyone has ever done for Louis this year. Maybe ever. He clicks the links for the attached documents and there, on his laptop screen, are the e-boarding passes for two tickets to New York. One for Louis, one for Harry. Louis all but forgets how to breathe for a solid minute.

"Fucking Hell, Arterton," he says, to no one in particular.

He minimises the tickets and returns to the email. Underneath both of their names at the end − Louis can't work out why Nick is taking any credit for this, but he lets him have it − Nick has written a caveat. _She will never admit it but she will be heartbroken if you two don't come. Also, these are non-refundable because Gemma is cruel and you never stood a chance of saying no. See you in two weeks._

Louis reads it through a fifth and final time before going to find Harry.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

"How much did they set her back?"

"Doesn't matter," Zayn sighs, rubbing at his cheek in an almost scratch. "Just accept them."

"If I look them up and they're more than £500, I'm going to kill her."

Zayn groans and rolls his eyes. On the other end of the line Harry goes quiet, waiting. "Don't you dare. Accept them with the silent appreciation she would want you to and don't ask her how much they were."

"Zayn."

He looks up, as though Harry is going to appear in front of him, his voice so close. "Harry," he throws back, the obvious response. "They're a gift."

Harry tries, "But-"

"A gift, Styles. Drop it." He says, "She'll be insulted if you make a fuss."

"And you'll never forgive me if I break her heart, right?" he tacks on, a laugh in his voice but the words hit Zayn solidly in the chest.

"Right," he agrees.

Harry makes a noise, gentle and light, one Zayn would have missed if he had been breathing out. "Guess I'm coming to New York." He says, "I can't wait to see you two."

Zayn lets his words settle in his head, taking his time before he says anything else.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Nick goes out for breakfast with RJ, leaving Gemma and Zayn alone in the apartment together. His elbow stings from where he knocked it off the ground during rehearsals yesterday − he has his mouth open, ready to tell Gemma as she shuffles into the room for breakfast, but then he remembers they aren't talking. It is very difficult trying not to speak when they're in the kitchen together, the rest of the place around them silent.

Zayn begins, "I'm sorry," and Gemma looks up so fast from the mug she's holding, she clatters the crown of her head off the open press door above her and stumbles back wincing. She bends at the waist, cradling her arms around her head, and muttering some blue into the space around her. Zayn dives for her, hands making contact with her shoulders and he says, "Fuck. Sorry. Are you ok?"

She emerges out of her arm cocoon to inform him, "I bit my tongue."

Zayn wrinkles his nose into a grimace on her behalf. And tries again, "I'm sorry." He's not really sure what he's apologising for.

Of course, Gemma has to ask. "What for?"

He rubs her shoulders slowly, easing her back to full height and taking the time to consider the question. So far, she has made it so easy to ignore it − to pretend he didn't kiss her and let her accept all the responsibility, since _she_ was the one to apologise for it. But there's probably blood in her mouth. And Zayn just made her smack her head. He owes her this. "For the other night."

It feels like enough, but Gemma goes, "Oh no you don't," and Zayn's heart beats in his chest extra fast. Not unpleasant but there. "We- you. It."

Zayn has to agree.

"I kissed you and I shouldn't have." He admits, "I let you think it was your fault."

He thinks back to it. Back to the streetlight above them and the way his hands were on her hips. He thinks of the way their breathing matched up. Guilt washes over him because none of that, none of it at all was Gemma's fault. And Zayn shouldn't have- He should never have- Fuck. She makes everything so easy and Zayn has just let it be.

God.

He really is awful, isn't he?

In front of him, Gemma smiles. Their hands meet, comforting for both, and she swallows down something in her throat. Zayn can't tell if he's the one to pull her in or if she yanks him to her but he stumbles backwards all the same, the small of his back colliding with the countertop, and he says, "I'm sorry," into the space next to her ear, meaning every little piece of the sentence. He feels Gemma's rumble of a hum through her, her chest warm against his. "I'm so sorry. I'm-"

"It's ok," she insists. 

For whatever reason, Zayn knows she's still smiling.

"Is it?"

Gemma nods. "Yeah. It's fine."

"Ok."

When Harry and Louis land in JFK five days later, the airport is packed. So he doesn't lose her, Zayn grabs Gemma's hand and pulls her through the crowd with him. He can't see more than four people into the fray. Luckily Harry is taller than most people, his curly hair rising above everyone else and Zayn takes a left, slipping passed a family and walking towards Louis' voice. By the time he wrestles passed a group of teenagers to them, Harry has a hand on Zayn's shoulder and that's how he stops − Gemma holding his left hand and Harry positioned on his right, pulling him in. They both get pulled into the hug from him, his 'I've missed you' lost, not meant for just one of them alone, while Louis squawks indignantly at being left out.

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

Harry insists he's taking everyone for dinner, Zayn casting a knowing glare over at him while Gemma changes her shoes. But Nick bows out of going gracefully, vaguely mentioning something about a strained knee and 'I just want to sleep but thank you' as Louis nods and says he's going to stay too.

As she passes, the other two already out in the hallway, calling out 'come the fuck on, Gemma' as she fumbles with her purse and a jacket, Gemma nudges her shoulder against Louis' and passes him a smile. He gives it back but feels something he can't properly place. The door closes. He sighs to himself and realises he's jealous, for reasons he can't name, that aren't obvious to him; reasons that aren't Zayn or Harry or the fact they've been in New York with Nick for the past two months and he has just got his sling off. It's more like. He's jealous at how easy it is for her. She pulled on her jacket and followed after the other two, gave Louis a fast smile and continued on with her life.

Everything is easy for her. Easy with her too, so simple the way she says how it is and lets it be.

Louis trudges down the corridor after way too long spent staring at the closed door − he finds Nick sprawled out over the couch.

He moves his knee when he spots Louis, like that's going to be enough. Louis scowls.

"Airport was packed," Nick says, Louis shoving at him for more space but neither of them giving up easily. He ends up lying mostly on top of Nick, shifting every few seconds to annoy him. "Is there something going on this weekend I haven't heard about?"

Louis shrugs, making sure to elbow him in the ribs as he puts his shoulders right.

"Don't," he warns. "I will fart on you."

_Christ._

Why is Louis here?

He sighs and rolls over, trying less to hurt Nick this time but managing all the same. He ends up facing him, probably shouldn't be putting this much weight on his dodgy collarbone but then Nick smiles and Louis crumples. His mouth hits somewhere around Nick's throat when he lowers his head, and he feels himself say, "I missed you."

He really didn't want to be the first person to say it but-

He can't take it back now.

Nick's hand strokes up his flank, pushing in around Louis' rips and causing him to sag more. Their knees knock together, bone on bone through their jeans, and Louis laughs because it's all he can do. "I know," Nick tells him. It isn't a joke, not teasing or mocking or anything else how Louis imagined him saying it. He feels his heart swell at this. God. He's so dumb. (Louis has no idea if he's talking about himself or about Nick right now.) "I missed you too. Course I did."

Louis wets his lips, a bubble of spit in the corner of his mouth sticking to Nick's skin where his collar doesn't rise up and cover it.

"What else would I do?" he asks.

"I missed you a lot," is all Louis gives him. "I broke my collarbone and I missed you. I sat on the couch and looked at your instagram. And all the videos of you. I nearly kissed someone else cos I missed you so much."

Nick just laughs.

He laughs and laughs and laughs while Louis waits for him to get mad and throw him off. It won't be good for his collarbone and he could easily move to save himself but he stays and waits. But Nick doesn't. He just laughs and pulls Louis in closer, breathes in the smell of his hair and doesn't let him up.

Louis bites him. Because.

"You're an idiot." Nick says it the way Louis imagines geniuses say their groundbreaking ideas when the first discover them. "I've missed you."

He could ask why he hasn't said it before. He could. But that feels like an argument waiting to happen. It feels like Louis would have to explain why he didn't say it either, his excuse no better or worse than Nick's. It feels like too much effort and right now everything is easy.

Instead, he says:

"Yeah. I am. But so are you."

 

 

\+ + +

 

 

They spend dinner arguing over who is _actually_ paying the bill and showing Harry all the photos they've taken in New York together. Zayn should probably be more embarrassed by the amount of pictures of Gemma he has, especially showing them to her boyfriend, but Harry looks at every one with an honest smile on his face and it makes it very difficult to be embarrassed of anything when Harry smiles at you like that.

In the end, Gemma gets to the bill before either of them do, claiming she's going to the bathroom and paying on the way.

At Zayn, Harry rolls his eyes and mouths 'she's the worst' but means the opposite. He catches Gemma's hand in his and pulls her to him as they head out the door, kissing her fully on the cheek as she laughs, his 'you don't need to pay for everything' getting smashed into the line of the bone. Outside on the street they fall into step with one another, the three of them all in a line and taking up most of the pavement; Gemma apologises to a woman with a buggy as she huffs out a frown as she fits passed them.

Outside Macy's Harry insists on taking photos because Harry is Harry and claims, "I need to catch up with you two."

Gemma pretends to sigh dramatically, telling him, "You'll never catch up with us. Who says we want you?"

Zayn gets stuck on the 'we' she used in her sentence.

He takes a photo of them together, covering up his momentary slip with the shutter noise of Harry's phone. He has barely the shot taken when Gemma steps out of frame, reaching for the phone and shoving Zayn in front of the window with Harry, shouting out, "My boys!" over the noise of two taxis having a standoff behind her.

They pose and smile and when the photo is taken, Harry pulls away and whispers, "Her boys?" at Zayn, more of an amused question than bothered by it and Zayn finds he has to laugh to cover up anything he might say in response.

She holds his phone away from Harry for it. And informs him, "Obviously it's an honour."

Zayn laughs again and Harry copies him.

"I'm keeping your phone," she states. Harry lets her go with a soft shrug, Gemma continuing on a couple of steps ahead of them and taking photos of things at random, anything that catches her eye. (He can always delete them if he doesn't want them, Zayn figures.)

Harry takes one step for every two Zayn takes, no longer synced up without Gemma in the middle, keeping them in time, but they make it work. Their shoulders butt together a few times, but it's easy enough.

Gemma makes it across the road but they don't. Not realising, she continues on without them but Zayn tells Harry, "We can catch up." They find her again on the other side, snapping a photo of a lady feeding pigeons, but don't hurry to quickly after her. It's amusing to watch her stop every minute or so and take a photo, photos Zayn knows she has on her phone herself and thinks Harry needs. He turns to watch Harry, who is looking down at his shoes as if counting his steps, and before he has really thought about it, Zayn tells him, "I'm glad you're here."

Harry chuckles. "Where else would I be?" he questions, clearly joking. "I wouldn't want to break her heart. Or yours."

It's that − the simple softness of Harry's words that does it for Zayn. He springs forward a step, not jumping but moving ahead of Harry, almost running away, and he says, "I kissed her, you know. By accident." It feels like a cop out, but it's the truth. It _is_ the truth. His fingers itch for a cigarette (or to hold Gemma's hand because. Fuck. They do that now. A lot.) but he doesn't reach for one.

Harry stays quiet for too long.

He stares down at his feet. Step after step after step. Somewhere in front of them, Gemma tilts Harry's phone to the side and takes a photo of a poster on the side of a streetlight.

"By accident?" he eventually parrots, copying Zayn's tone. "That's ok."

Zayn's not so sure it is. But then Harry lifts his head and looks at him. And. Maybe it is ok. Maybe it's ok he kissed Gemma then, under the streetlight outside the club, with his hands on her hip and his cigarette crushed underneath his toe because. Because.

Because right now, he wants to kiss Harry. Following along behind Gemma as she leads them the long back to the apartment.

Fuck.

They both make it so easy.

"Yeah, ok," Zayn agrees. Harry smiles and between them, their knuckles bump off one another. He doesn't reach for his hand, not like he has done with Gemma so many times before, but Harry doesn't move his hand away either. "Sorry," he apologises. For what it's worth.

"We'll work it out," he offers back.

Back in the apartment, they find Louis and Nick asleep on the couch. Gemma coos at them, tugging in the duvet from Nick's bed and throwing it over them. Louis snuffles out something in his sleep at her − Gemma leans in and strokes his hair away from his face carefully, so not to wake him. Zayn points down the hall and Harry follows, Gemma slipping into the kitchen. They throw their jackets on Zayn's bed, removing their shoes as quietly as they can − it feels a bit ridiculous, tiptoeing around like mice just because Nick and Louis have taken up residence in the living room but if they're all doing it, it isn't so bad − before heading back to Gemma. She has three cups down for tea, a bag in each and the milk waiting next to them.

They're most of the way through when Harry states, "You only bought one way tickets."

The other two slowly turn to stare at him, staying quiet.

"Yeah," she agrees with a nod. "I didn't want you to think you had to stick around longer than you wanted to but I also didn't want you to think we only wanted you hear for a few days."

Harry takes a while to process it, his forehead wrinkling with a confused frown. Zayn steps in and tells him, "We'll work it out, mate. Don't worry."

 

 

**E P I L O G U E :**

The first night of _Romeo & Juliet_ in the David H. Koch Theatre has no less than twenty curtain calls with Harry and Louis standing and cheering from the second one. (It takes Harry until well into the first act to wrap his head around the fact he isn't going to join them on stage at any point − the first time Gemma comes on, he feels like he's watching from the side, waiting for his cue, but when Zayn's Mercutio shoves Nick's Tybalt, causing him to nearly tumble backwards over a stool, Louis' hand finds Harry's on his knee, and it settles in him that they are spectators for once, not dancers.) By the time they come off stage, Gemma is exhausted, falling into a hug with Harry when he and Louis come backstage to them.

It's already late, too late for a good dinner, but not too late for a few celebratory drinks for a wonderful performance.

Gemma pulls on her coat with her hair still up in Juliet's styles, but Louis thinks it's cute. And Nick's eyeliner has spread down under his eye a bit, his face still glistening with sweat. "What about Splash, round the corner?" he says.

When Zayn and Gemma nod, it's decided.

It takes them a while to flag down a taxi who will take all of them − "We can get the next one, meet you there." "No. We're sticking together." − and then there's the required argument about paying, where Harry all but shoves Gemma out onto the street before she can pay the fare, her heel catching on the lip of the taxi's door but Zayn catches her before she can properly fall.

The security guard is apparently Kevin and he smiles at them all as they pass, Nick greeting him, "Good night tonight?"

Four months from now, at the beginning of the next season, Louis will be cast as the handsome, Scottish groom in the Royal Ballet's production of _La Sylphide_ , with Gemma as the titular role. His collarbone will be fully healed but there will still be a slight strain on the muscle when he traps Gemma in the bewitched cloak and she attempts to flit away from him on opening night -- he won't say anything until they're backstage again, preparing to go on for their bow. As they walk back on, Nick will trip on his witch's cape and Louis will take his hand and Nick will softly say, "Thank you."

But right now. It's a Friday night and Nick's hand has been in Louis' since they got out of the taxi outside the club. Gemma is laughing at something Zayn has said, the skin around her eyes crinkling with it while Harry is ordering a round of shots at the bar, patting himself down for change to give the girl a tip.

All that is four months away. 

(They'll work it out.)

 

 

**_F I N ._ **


End file.
